So I know most of the clones have very short, to-the-point names (Rex, Cody, Fives, Kix, Sev, Fi, etc.) but what about clones giving each other Puritan-style names that end up shortened? Say, CT-2929 is “Told-Death-To-Fuck-Off” but most people just call him “Fuckoff”
I am firmly of the belief that, every so often, Dorian and Cassandra will swipe a bottle of good wine from somewhere, find a secluded corner, and play Whose Family Is More Pretentious And Generally Awful.
(Cassandra usually doesn’t talk about it with other people; it’s enough for everyone else to know that she left her mausoleum of a home and her giant, terrible family–with nary a backwards look, even–when she was all of fourteen. But Dorian gets it. Although they have the occasional tipsy argument about Necromancy: Bad Idea or Worst Idea?)
The next time you feel the need to say something mean or unkind, or feel the need to point out people’s flaws or feel like you have to publicly disparage or humiliate someone, take a second to read this. It’s a reminder that stopping the hate in this world starts with us. Right here, right now.
If you don’t have something nice to say, put the phone down, take your hands off the keyboard.
Don’t reply with a snotty comment, don’t hit send on that anonymous ask, don’t retweet the bullshit. Go for a walk, watch a cat video, sing your favorite song at the top of your lungs, do anything but spread the hate. Be the better person.
reminder for today (and pretty much every other day, but today especially)
fandom exists because there are plot holes that need to be filled, intimate details that need to stretched out into infinite encounters, emotions that are too strong to be conveyed in one glance….
send some love to a fandom creator today. your favorite artist who makes you flail, swoon, and laugh. your favorite fic writer who spends hours over a keyboard taking your otp through their paces and ushering them to a happy ending. your favorite gif maker who brings each second alive in a completely new way….
virtually hug a fandom friend today and remember why you fell in love with love in the first place ♡ xx
Whenever I see “type such-n-such with your eyes closed” I think to myself, ‘Have… Have none of you ever taken a typing class before?? Do you all have to look at the keyboard while you’re typing??? W-What??????”
Warning: I’m an asshole and you should never read anything I write.
A/N: I’ve got so many Haytham feels rn. This didn’t help. leleecool look at what you made me do. (Haytham is looking hella fine in that gif)
The sweet scent of aged spices rolled over your form, a warm arm thrown over your bare stomach. The morning rays of sun were creeping in through the blinds, making the man lying next to you look absolutely divine. His expression was peaceful, his usually well kept dark hair mussed in all different directions, no doubt an after effect of last nights rather, if you do say so yourself, pleasurable activities. A breath blew past his parted lips, his hand pulling your nude body ever closer to his heat.
It wasn’t often that you woke up before he did, but you loved every minute of it when you did. He never looked this relaxed while awake, even in the throes of pleasure he held a sort of tenseness, his mind obviously troubled. But moments like this, when his thoughts had settled and he escaped the harsh reality of their lives, he could finally relax. And boy was it marvelous.
“Enjoying the view?” He quipped, a smirk playing at his lips. He still had yet to open his eyes, keeping your body tight against his.
“Mmm, always.” You whispered, dropping a small kiss to his toned chest.
“I have to leave at midday.” Haytham admitted, his eyes finally opening. If you had been allowed, you would stare into his beautiful gaze all day. It was more than just the brilliant gray staring back at you, more than just the soft twinkle in the light, it was the intensity. His eyes could make you burn like fire or freeze like ice. They could make you queen of everything or tear you down to nothing.
Sure, Haytham was an extremely attractive man, but the way he made you feel, that was what was truly special about him. That’s what had intrigued you to begin with. Well, that and his little Templar operation. You had been sent to put a stop to it and him, but instead, he stole a piece of you, you could never get back. Instead he stole your heart. And, you smiled up at him softly, it seems you may have stolen his too.
“Must you?” Your voice was sweet, already knowing that he couldn’t stay. He never could. It was glaringly obvious to the both of you that this would never work out. In the end, one of you would be gone and the other wouldn’t. It was an unspoken issue in your relationship, not because you didn’t think it would happen, but simply because you wished to not remind the other.
One look into his stormy eyes and you knew you’d never be able to live without him. He was your light in the darkness, there to guide you through the difficult paths. And the thought that one day he could be gone, you shivered.
“What’s wrong, darling?” He breathed, a finger ghosting up your bare back. You shivered again, albeit for much more pleasurable reasons.
“I don’t wish for you to go.” You changed the subject, knowing that you were only delaying the inevitable.
“I shall return soon.” He promised, his warm breath caressing your lips as he moved ever closer. “And when I do,” his mouth was hovering over yours, “I’ll not leave you until you’re fully satisfied.” He closed the gap, tongue demanding entrance before you had even began moving against his lips. You couldn’t deny his request, letting his mouth roam over yours like a king. You moaned loudly, his hands wrapping around your body so he could pull you even closer. And you were nothing if not his loyal queen.
“Yes?” Haytham called to the curt knock on his door, startling him out of his thoughts. Shay came into view, a sad sort of smile playing on his lips. “I expect you ran into no troubles?”
“Actually,” Shay began, “I ran into a number of them.” A brow raised in surprise, Haytham not expecting Shay to have run into any sort of danger. It was only an intelligence mission, and it wasn’t anything overly important.
“I’m listening.” Haytham drawled, dropping the quill that he’d been writing with lightly on the desk.
“I encountered a lone assassin in the streets. She put up one hell of a fight but I expect you won’t be seeing her again.”
“And?” He prompted, noticing the clear confusion in Shay’s expression.
“She kept repeating your name,” Shay trailed off, not entirely sure what that meant. Haytham, however, was going mad. Not on the outside, of course, but on the inside. From an outwards perspective, he looked nearly the same as he always did, a carefully stoic posture so as not to give away his inner turmoil. On the inside, it was another story entirely. He could feel the panic rise with each beat of his heart, fear’s unforgiving grasp tightening its hold on him.
“Where?” He inquired, his voice betraying his emotions.
“In the streets of New York but I don’t see how that’s im-,” Before Shay even had a chance to finish, Haytham was out the door, walking at a leisure pace despite the urge to sprint, to assure himself that you were fine. As soon as he made it out into the crisp night air, he didn’t hold back, running through the cobblestone streets like his life depended on it. And, he mused, it very well might.
The night was heavy on your back, hot blood staining your hands. You weren’t going to make it. Still, you continued to push, pleading for him. You hadn’t thought any of this through, hadn’t been able to. All you knew was that you needed to see him one more time, needed to look into his beautiful eyes, needed to tell him how you felt.
You stumbled, a knee dropping roughly against the ground as harsh coughs wracked your body, warm liquid dripping down your chin. Had you been more aware, you might have noticed the shift in atmosphere as Haytham ran towards you, the crunch of twigs beneath his feet, or the shout that left his lips. But you weren’t aware, the darkness creeping heavily in on you. Each second was like torture, the ever darkening death looming over you.
You could almost laugh at the irony of it all, dying alone by the hand of your lover’s friend. Was that what it was; love? You questioned, your body collapsing onto the ground painfully as your blood stained the Earth crimson. Yes, you smiled, a final breath passing through your lips, freeing you from the bounds of pain. It was love.
Haytham reached out, his knees scraping achingly against rocks as he slid for you, needing to see your beautiful gaze. Instead he was met with shallow, lifeless eyes, your blood hot against his skin, almost mocking him. Your lips were smiling up at him, your skin almost warm enough to fool him into thinking you were alive. A pained howl was ripped from his throat, his arms pulling your limp form into his chest, pleas whispering from his lips.
You couldn’t be gone, he had just seen you hours ago. He could still hear the sound of your laughter, still smell your unique scent on his skin, still feel your heated touches, still see your beautiful smile in his mind’s eye, still taste your lips against his. There was a pain in his chest, tearing him asunder from the inside. He had caused this.
He pulled back, darkened gray eyes gazing at the shell of the person you once were. His heart was aching, reaching for yours for love. Only, this time, he felt nothing but the bitter cold, biting at his emotions harshly. He had let you die.
“(Y/N),” he breathed, his voice shaky. “Don’t leave me alone. I can’t,” he broke, his normally charismatic words failing him. He could feel it in his chest, the missing piece, the piece that you had taken from the moment he first laid eyes upon you, and the remnant that remained with your bloodied body in the eternity of death. He’d never get it back, never feel whole again.
He was broken and there was nothing that could fix him. His tears fell hotly onto your cooling skin, a hand running through your hair as he rested his head on your chest. He had lost too much in this world, and now, he was damaged beyond repair.
So years later, when he had his son beneath him, hidden blade ready to release into his neck, he couldn’t do it. Your eyes flashed in his mind, your warm smile looking to him like it was only yesterday. He couldn’t lose another person. He loosened his grip, allowing Connor to slide his blade into his neck. It didn’t hurt like he thought, in fact, he couldn’t help but feel content. After all these years of wishing, praying, pleading, crying, and begging for you, he was finally going to be reunited with you; his heart, his soul, his love.
I’m going to retire this tumblr and leave this post at the top for posterity. The world is dark right now, but about three months back, I found this video which has been church to me ever since.
It’s pretty simple: an upbeat, odd time signatured, fairly dorky prog jazz song played live in-studio with an audience by the funk band Snarky Puppy (oof that name, as though lonelysandwich were any better) and at 4:20, the extraterrestrial genius Cory Henry takes a keyboard solo that elevates it above music, above performance, into religious territory. Watch his bandmates’ faces as he plays. Watch the other keyboardist take off his headphones and stand up laughing because he just can’t take it any longer. They’ve never seen anything like this. You’ve never seen anything like this. This is a man who speaks the language of his instrument with such a profound gift that music is transcended. I believe this solo to prove the existence of God.
But not all by itself. Because once the importance of this solo hit me, I started to research and found that it’s not an unheralded fluke. This solo is a cultural event, and millions of people have been touched by it. This Reddit thread about the solo invites people to weigh in and break down its impact with theory.
This guitarist, Jonathan Asperil covers the solo so virtuosically, so in sync that it seems like a special effect:
This French vocalist, Camille Bertault, scats along to the solo with such effortless grace you’d think she has a MIDI cord plugged into the back of her neck.
So it’s not just Cory Henry’s solo by itself that makes me believe this piece of musical splendor was put on our planet for a reason…it’s the planet’s response to it. If I believed that music were the spiritually divine’s encoded messages attempting to tell us that yes, there’s a truth to existence, and that nature is harmony (which I do), then this is my Bible. I’ll leave it here and wish us all good luck.
Oh, snap! Valentine’s Day is coming and we need your help!
Your mission is simple: take your
pen/tablet/mouse/keyboard/medium of choice and make something Noblesse-related so cute it
will give cavities to everyone within a 10-mile radius. The fluffiest fluff to
ever fluff. Fanfics and fanart so full
of love that it will melt the fandom’s heart. It can be SFW or NSFW (but make
sure to tag those ;)
The posting date is February 14.
Don’t forget to send me a link of your entry so I
can include them all in a masterpost.
If you have a friend who you think would like to
participate, tag them and invite them to join :)
8 tips to increase creativity and break writer's block
8 tips to increase creativity and break writer’s block.
These are simple activities that I indulge when scenes, images and plot do not manifest with alacrity.
If you are stuck on a plot point or scene development: take the characters involved and run them through a fun, if not absurd, scenario in your head. It has no stakes or impact so you are free to let your imagination run wild without the fear of having to edit later. Have fun with it. Then, after you have done so, get back to the event you wish to put down on paper.
In relation to the point above, sometimes you must walk away from the keyboard. Take a walk. Exercise. Or find a way to relax and let your subconscious mind work it out. Sometimes, the problems are solved by not being the center of focus. That’s why we have things like a “Shower Epiphany”. You know, when the great ideas come to you while taking a shower.
Another aspect to the “Shower Epiphany” is the sensory exclusion of everything else but you, the warmth, and the constant smooth sound of falling water. Since we can’t sit in the shower and write, I am sure some people have the tech to but the pruning would be worrisome, there two things to mimic the sensory limitations: First, turn your bloody phone off and put it away somewhere that it would take effort to retrieve. Second, iso-rooms. Isolated room with no decoration, adornment, sound or anything but a desk for that matter. Local libraries have study room if you don’t have a small room to utilize in this manner. With no distractions and sensory deprivation, your mind must generate input. You can focus and direct this function by thinking of your writing problem. If you don’t believe me that the mind will generate sensory input, false as it is, go stare into a mirror for more than three minutes and see what happens. Or, stare at another person’s face for ten minutes and see what happens. Go sit in a dark, sound proof room for ten minutes and see what happens. You will hallucinate, but with writing, this can be harnessed.
Having a problem with a metaphor or image? Do association exercises. Example: Take a cup. What does a cup do? It holds liquids. What else holds liquids? Oceans, lakes, ponds, palms of hands, bladders, plastic bags with no holes in them…etc. You get the point. Now, you can reverse engineer. In this example, you have a character who is holding a cup and you want to develop this because it relates to the character’s inner turmoil. So, the cup can represent an obstacle. Perhaps the character was on a hunger strike or has a fear of accepting drinks they have not prepared themselves. Let’s go with this then- “She lifted the thin rimmed tea cup to her lips, but every sip, was a struggle like swimming across the salt burdened sea to a shore that falters in the horizon.” It is the association game. If you are not innately skilled at this, I recommend just doing the game regularly when among other activities. There are patterns everywhere.
Just work through it. Write some horrible, dumb, stupid, sentences and just keep going. You know why? Because we rewrite. In fact, rewriting probably takes more time than writing the first draft for some of us. Also, if it is the first draft, and you are having inspiration or flow obstacles, don’t worry. First drafts suck. The degree of the deplore depends but they do. I liken it sculpting with clay. First, you gather a mound of clay. The second draft is forming the clay into a recognizable figure but cutting away chunks. Third draft smooth out the features and creates fine details. Do as many drafts as you need to.
Do routine tasks differently to prime creative thoughts. If you eat with your right hand, try eating with your left. The point is to disrupt your routine. This break automatic approaches to tasks. Your neurons light up and are ready for novelty and our minds love novelty, so they get primed.
Emotional state dependent creation: Having a hard time getting that pathos to pour and the pain to emote from your protagonist? Listen to some music you know make you feel this way or invokes a memory of and event you can use. I can’t tell you what music to listen, but I wouldn’t listen to Mariah Carey if the character is to be in the emotional condition where they go on a murderous rage… unless hearing her music makes you feel that way.
Notice most of this is about relaxing and not getting too anxious about writing. There is a reason. Creativity can be stalled by worry, fear and anxiety. That twist of tense tension tortures us into freezing. When faced with fear, humans do a few things: fight, flee and freeze. The stress hormones don’t give a crap if the threat is imagined. They will do what they do and leave you blocked like you had eaten a wheel of cheddar the night before.
Relax. Writing is just about depicting a world through a series of false memories and conjured daydreams. Two other activities help me as well. First, reading. Go read a book, short story, or comic that is similar to what you are writing. Second, acting exercises. Pretend to be other people and look at the world or conflicts you are creating. You know, get a second opinion from yourself. Sounds a bit crazy but writing is the art of wrangling memory and madness in a way.